


the art of summoning

by twistedroses



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, season 4
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-16
Updated: 2019-12-16
Packaged: 2020-10-19 14:56:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20659070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twistedroses/pseuds/twistedroses
Summary: Emma has yet to master the art of summoning, but if it can help Killian rescue the fairies from the Sorcerer's Hat, she's going to try to her best. Though, as typical in Storybrooke, things never seem to go to plan, and a new curse sends her scrambling to find her way back to the people she loves.





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> A fic for the CS September Sunshine event over on tumblr. This story is set in the 6 weeks of peace in Season 4.

On a cold, dim Tuesday, Emma gets out of her car down at Storybrooke’s docks, admiring the Storybrooke harbour in the warm afternoon light. Even from the street, the _Jolly Roger _is easily spotted, its tall mast towering over the rest of the fishing boats.

Emma makes her way closer, the take-out bag from Granny’s clenched tightly in her hand. As the deck comes into view, she can see the silhouetted figure of Killian, pacing back and forth. Belle had called her at the station earlier, her voice full of concern. She and Killian had been working all morning on researching ways to save the fairies from the Sorcerer’s Hat, but like all the other days they’ve spent, it was unproductive and frustrating. Killian, in particular, had been angry today, and he’d stormed off from the library in a heated temper. 

Emma isn’t surprised; he’s been in a dark mood ever since they discovered it would be no easy task to save the fairies from the Sorcerer’s Hat. Each passing day with no success has blackened his mood further, and no matter how many times Emma tells him it’s not his fault, that Gold was controlling him, that he had no choice but to obey, it’s done nothing to alleviate his guilt or anger. 

She continues on towards the ship, watching her step carefully on the slippery decks. The sight of the ship still sometimes takes her aback, with its polished timbers and white sails bound tightly up by old iron rigging. The rest of Storybrooke is mundane, nothing of its true magical origins in its ordinary appearance of a small fishing village, but the Jolly Roger is a sign of its otherworldliness, a true pirate ship amongst the regular vessels.

Sometimes Emma thinks that it’s even weirder that it’s her _boyfriend_’_s_ pirate ship.

When she finally reaches the ship, Killian has stopped his pacing, standing at the starboard side now, staring out to the horizon. His hook is resting on the polished wood of the rail, his hand curled into a fist at his side. His back is to Emma, but she can see from the tense set of his shoulders and his white knuckles that his brow is most likely furrowed, his eyes dark with the broody look Emma is far too familiar with these days.

“Hey,” she calls, and he turns around, hand automatically going to the sword at his belt from centuries of instinct. He relaxes when he sees its her, smiling even in his dark mood, and she steps down onto the deck, holding out the bag from Granny’s. “I brought lunch.”

Killian crosses the deck to greet her, pressing a kiss into her hair as he wraps an arm around her. Emma finds it hard not to grin as she hugs him back; her life is sure different than it was a year ago, she marvels, as she hugs her boyfriend back on his pirate ship in a town filled with fairy tale characters. If she could go back and tell her past self what she’d be doing now, she’d never in a thousand years have believed it.

“I wasn’t expecting you,” Killian says, releasing her to take the bag of takeout and opening it to peer inside. “Not that I’m complaining, love,” he amends quickly, when he notices Emma’s jokingly raised eyebrow. “How did you know I would be here?”

Emma pauses before answering, chewing on her lip. “Belle called me.”

His hand curls into a fist around the bag, paper crinkling loudly as his eyes darken, shuttering himself away ever so slightly.

“Ah.”

Emma steps closer, and says, trying to make her voice as firm as possible, “I know you feel awful about the fairies, Killian, but you can’t beat yourself up over the it all the time. This was Gold’s fault. Not yours.”

Killian shakes his head, a muscle in his jaw pulsing as he glances back out over the water, as if it has some consolation or answer for his anger.

“It was still by my hand,” he says, and his voice is nearly a growl. “If I had fought harder against the crocodile’s control or not provoked him in the first place, the fairies wouldn’t be trapped in a magical bloody hat with no hope of retrieval. So, I appreciate your effort, Swan, but it is my fault.”

Emma bites back a sigh. She’s argued this point with him for weeks now, and nothing will change his mind. Foregoing the argument for now as her stomach rumbles, she tugs on his arm, pulling him towards the stairs to his cabin below.

“Come on, let’s eat. Lunch is getting cold.”

They descend into his cabin, and Killian clears away the clutter on the central table for them to eat. Emma pointedly ignores the many handwritten notes and torn book pages about rescuing individuals from cursed items, and luckily lunch passes without any conversation about the fairies; Emma even manages to draw a few smiles and laughs from Killian.

He pours them each a glass of rum when they’re finished eating, and they move from the table to sit on his bed. Emma leans against his chest as she sips her drink, appreciating the quiet rocking of the ship against the waves, the call of the seagulls up above. Storybrooke has been quiet for weeks now, but it’s still unusual to just be able to have a normal lunch with Killian, to sit with him in peaceful silence, without the worry of a villain raining destruction upon the town.

Though it doesn’t last long; Emma’s phone buzzes then, disrupting the silence. Typical, she thinks, fishing her phone out of her pocket. Short-lived as always; peace and quiet is something she wonders if she’ll ever truly get.

The notification is a text from Regina, a simple _Where are you? _but Emma can hear her curt tone through the screen, and she groans. Regina has decided its time Emma learns more control over her magic. She had learned bits and pieces when Zelena, Elsa’s snow monsters, and Ingrid were terrorizing the town, but with this strange spell of peace and quiet, she actually has a chance to dedicate some time to the craft, instead of learning on the fly to combat an evil witch or conjured ice monster, and she was supposed to have a lesson starting about fifteen minutes ago.

“Duty calls?” asks Killian, and Emma sighs.

“No, but it’s Regina. We’re supposed to have one of our lessons today. I forgot.”

Emma disentangles herself from Killian, who rises from the bed himself to walk her off the ship. At the edge of his ship, he wraps his arms around her again, kissing her deeply, and for a moment Emma has a hard time rationalizing why she has to go see Regina at all right now.

It must show on her face, because Killian smirks at her.

“As much as I’d prefer you to stay here too, love, if you don’t show up at the vault, I have a suspicion that Her Majesty will be none too pleased, and I doubt the Jolly Roger will survive her fireballs of wrath. Though, for your sake, I hope she’ll be in a better mood today.”

“Doubtful,” Emma replies with a sigh. Regina is a challenge at the best of times, but ever since Robin left Storybrooke a few weeks ago with Marian, she’s been downright miserly, and most of her rage has been centered on Emma for being the one to bring Marian back in the first place.

Emma moves away from Killian, lest her mind change again, but before stepping off the ship, Emma pauses and turns around to face him again.

“We will get the fairies out of the hat, Killian. I promise.”

He nods, though his eyes grow distant again. “I hope so.”

He waves in departure as Emma hurries back to her car. She hasn’t mastered the _poofing _aspect of magic yet that Regina is so skilled at, and has to drive over to the cemetery instead. When she arrives at Regina’s vault, now more than twenty minutes late, the woman herself is waiting for her with a scowl and dark eyes barely flicking up over the book she’s reading.

“You’re late.”

“Sorry, I was with Killian, and I lost track of time –”

Regina snorts, rolling her eyes as she clamps the book shut. “Say no more, I should have known you were with the pirate.”

Emma glares at her, her temper flaring at the other woman’s sour tone. “I’d be on time if you taught me how to do that ‘poofing’ thing you’re always doing.”

“_Teleportation_,” Regina corrects sternly, “is a highly advanced skill. To be able to move yourself from one location to the other requires a basic understanding of summoning and conjuration first, and you, Ms. Swan, cannot even do that.”

“Then let’s do that. Teach me how to summon objects or whatever.”

Regina looks mildly annoyed, and she sighs dramatically. “I had planned something else for today, but perhaps learning something you are actually interested in for a change will be more productive than our usual lessons.” Emma rolls her eyes, but Regina doesn’t even notice. She rises to her feet, snapping the book she was reading shut, and continues, “I need to fetch another few books from my office. I’ll be right back.”

As if to spite her, she disappears in a cloud of purple smoke.

It soon becomes apparent that Regina is going to take her sweet time to get those books, so Emma decides to poke around the vault in her absence. She’s not supposed to, she knows, but this place has always both fascinated and repulsed her; she can feel the darkness emanating from the shelves and boxes, as if a shadow lurks in between each book and object, whispering and calling out to her.

And try as she might to ignore the items around her, an item on one of the shelves near the door catches her eye. At first glance, Emma thinks it may be a music box, small and made of smooth black wood, with delicately carved hearts raised against the smooth wooden surface and closed shut with a heart shaped clasp. Emma knows better than to touch anything in this cursed vault, but a strange sense has come over her at the sight of the strange little box, and she finds herself unable and unwilling to stop herself. She moves closer and opens the small box, the clasp cold in her fingers.

It’s not a music box; inside, resting on a dark purple bed of velvet, is a pulsating violet crystal, about the size of her fist. It seems to glow brighter the longer she looks at it, and Emma reaches out to touch it, wondering what it is and what it could do –

“Don’t touch that!”

She jumps back at Regina’s voice, and Regina stalks over to her, shaking her head.

“You’re like a misbehaving child,” she mutters, picking up the box and casting a derisive look at Emma. “Disobeying rules just for the fun of it.”

Emma glares at her, but her eyes trace the box as Regina crosses the vault with it, holding it at arm’s length. The crystal is glowing darker at Regina's touch, a dark tendril of smoke beginning to circle within it.

“What is that thing?” she asks, too curious to stop herself.

“It was my mother’s,” Regina replies shortly, placing the small box on a nearby ledge, closing the lid over the pulsating crystal. The air to the room changes instantly, a heaviness Emma hadn’t noticed evaporating, and she shakes her head to clear her thoughts. Now when she looks at the box, her admiration and curiosity has faded into suspicion.

“I don’t know what it does,” Regina continues, answering Emma’s unasked question. “But probably nothing good, knowing her.”

Emma silently agrees, and she runs her hand up her arm to dispel the chill. 

“Alright, let’s get on with this then.”

Regina returned with three books from her office, and as Emma browses through one of them, she begins this lesson with a lecture about how this summoning magic stuff works. Or rather, _the art of summoning_, as she calls it.

Emma doesn’t understand half of what she’s saying, but she gets the gist – calling things towards you requires you to visualize both the object’s current location and where you want it to go at the same time, with equal intensity of each location. You have to consider the weight and size of the object you want to transport, the distance you want it to travel, the properties of the object itself, like whether it’s a solid or liquid or even another person, otherwise it could all go wrong. 

That last point about transporting people makes her wonder if they could use something like this to free the fairies. Would it possible that she could she call them towards herself, free of the hat’s reach? Though perhaps not –the hat absorbs magic. Maybe that wouldn’t work as it would only absorb that magic? She’ll have to tell Belle and Killian, see what they think. It might be a new lead, and even that might be enough to break Killian out of this funk –

Regina lets out an exasperated sigh, dropping her hands heavily onto the raised table between them, and Emma jumps in surprise.

“What? What’s wrong?”

Regina rolls her eyes, unamused. “You. You’re not even listening.”

And though she’d just been thinking about the fairies, and her cheeks start to burn, Emma shakes her head firmly.

“No, I was! This is – this is just hard to understand.” At Regina’s continued unimpressed expression, Emma sighs. “Well, okay, I was thinking … do you think … could we use something like this summoning stuff to save the fairies from the Sorcerer’s Hat?”

Instead of answering her question, Regina sighs angrily and lets out a scathing scoff. “No wonder you’re distracted. You’re supposed to be learning magic, not daydreaming about the pirate!”

“I’m not _daydreaming_,” Emma snaps, her temper flaring at Regina’s tone. “I’m concerned for him, Regina. He’s really upset over the fairies still being trapped in that hat, and if this is something that could help –”

“Well, he did put them there.”

Her blunt tone, her absolute lack of tact and empathy; Emma’s anger at Regina’s miserable attitude for the past couple of weeks finally bubbles over, and she shouts, “Gold had his heart, Regina! They are at the mercy of whoever controls them! You of all people should know exactly what it’s like to not have control over yourself when someone else is literally holding your heart in their hands!” 

And at that, while it’s not often that Emma gets a glimpse of the Evil Queen, there she is, glaring back at Emma with a cold ferocity. But Regina’s indignance only makes Emma’s annoyance and anger heighten; she could care less at this point how Regina feels about being called out for her past actions (after all, she deserves it, at the very least), and she glares at the other woman furiously.

“This is a waste of time,” Regina spits out, beginning to gather up the books she’d laid out, her voice as cold as ice. “Magic is tied to emotion, and if you can’t get yours under control, then we aren’t going to get anywhere. Come back when you’re ready.” 

Emma puts her hand down firmly on the last book, and shakes her head, taking a deep breath to steady herself. “No. I want to learn how to summon the objects.” _I want to be able to help Killian and the fairies. _

She doesn’t say the last bit, but Regina seems to hear it all the same, and she sighs sourly. “Fine, let’s give it a go. But if you can’t get this right, we’re done for today.” Emma nods curtly, and Regina moves to lean back against the far wall, picking up and holding an unlit candle in her hand. “Summon this candle, if you can.”

Emma takes a deep breath. Though her mind is swimming with anger, she tries to do all she’s supposed to – visualizes the candle in front of her, evaluates its weight and size, sees it coming to land in front of her on the table, but Regina’s right. She’s never been very good at controlling her magic when her emotions are haywire, and perhaps it’s a mix of concern for Killian and annoyance at Regina, but it all seems to go wrong.

Instead of the candle appearing in front of her like she’s trying to do, a strong wind picks up in the vault, blowing around loose papers and flickering the lit torches on the wall.

“What are you doing?” Regina demands. “I said summon a candle to yourself, not start a windstorm!”

“I didn’t mean to!” Emma closes her eyes, willing the wind to re-settle, trying to settle herself enough to get control back, but it’s no use. “I’m trying to stop it!”

“Then stop it!”

But it’s too late. The whipping wind only picks up in tempo the harder Emma tries to stop it. She tries to ignore it, tries to focus on stopping it, but when Regina yells out in alarm, Emma opens her eyes again, just in time to see the small box she’d been scolded about earlier falling to the floor from its place on the shelf.

The lid pops open as it falls, and when the box hits the ground, the elaborate purple crystal tumbles out and smashes into a thousand pieces. Instantly, a thin plume of amethyst smoke rises from each individual piece of crystal, each column colluding together to form an ever-growing cloud. Emma watches in horror as the cloud, filling with sparks of lightning, crackles as it gets bigger and bigger, twisting from the wind she’d inadvertently created to create a pulsating, dark tornado that fills the entire crypt.

Regina shrieks in alarm again, and Emma scrambles back, but there’s nowhere to hide from the tornado and she nearly gags as the cloud overcomes her. It’s bitter and cold, like drawing in a deep breath on an icy day, mixed with a harsh acrid tang that burns through her senses and makes her want to be sick. Emma has spent enough time around magic the last year or so and she recognizes what it is with a horrifying lurch of her stomach – dark magic.

She can’t see Regina anymore, the smoke having totally filled the crypt now, and she shouts for her to get to the door. Her voice is swallowed by the roaring wind, her throat burning as she inhales more of the toxic cloud, and she attempts to escape the vault herself, wading through the cloud as best she can. But she hardly gets three steps before her vision goes entirely black, the cloud overtaking her, her mind starting to fade into a lull of blackness as the smoke twists around her, howling and screaming as loud as a train’s whistle.

Then Emma sees nothing but darkness.

<> 

As quickly as she fell into the darkness, Emma jolts awake with a start, eyes burning from the remnants of the poisonous cloud. Her heart is racing a million miles a minute, her body pulsing with adrenaline, her eyes roving over her surroundings. She’s somehow ended up flat on her back, staring up at rough wooden ceiling. For a wild moment, she thinks that nothing happened. Perhaps the spell or curse or whatever it was just had to burn itself out.

But then she realizes – Regina’s vault is made of stone, not wood.

Emma sits up quickly, her head swimming as she takes in her surroundings. She’s no longer in the vault, but instead in a cramped bedroom, old wooden walls all around her. She’s now sitting on the single, lumpy bed beside a window, through which bright light filters through a thin cotton curtain. There’s a rickety chair beside the door, and a small table is beside the bed, with a half-burnt candle and a handful of gold coins splattered around it.

Yep, definitely not in Regina’s vault anymore. There’s only one answer to waking up in a place that looks like it could’ve been a set for the _Lord of the Rings _or some other high fantasy movie – she’s back in the Enchanted Forest.

Emma groans.

_Seriously?_

After cursing Cora and her dark spells to hell and back, Emma gets down to business and sets about trying to figure out what’s gone on here. She rises and pockets the gold coins from the table, before opening the small door and venturing out of her room. It opens into a narrow corridor, with a large room with drifting laughter and noise at the other end which turns out to be a tavern. It’s crowded, and no one looks familiar at all, until Emma spots the woman cleaning several glasses behind the bar.

“Granny!”

Granny glances over to Emma, and nods at her in greeting, leaning on the bar and looking her up and down. “Ah, you’re up! You looked half-dead when you arrived here last night; wasn’t sure if you’d wake up again.”

Emma strides over to the bar, delighted that she’s found a familiar face so early. Things are already going much better than the other times she’s been back in the Enchanted Forest, where it was either a refugee camp with Mulan and Aurora or in the depths of the past with Hook.

“Granny, I am so glad to see you! I’m sorry about this whole mess, I must’ve unleashed a spell to send us all back here. I’m gonna find us a way back to Storybrooke as quick as I can, so –”

“Huh? What are you on about?”

Emma’s voice trails off. Granny is staring at her, confused and suspicious, and as quickly as her joy hit her at the sight of Granny, Emma’s heart now sinks.

“I – don’t you remember Storybrooke?”

“Remember what?” Granny quizzes, setting her cloth down at the counter and peering at Emma with narrowed eyes. “And did you say something about a _spell_?”

Of course, it couldn’t be this easy.

“No,” Emma says hurriedly, not sure if Granny would care or not about her magic, but not wanting to risk it with the dark look she’s just been given. “No, I misspoke. I, uh –”

Emma’s voice catches in her throat then as she catches sight of a WANTED poster hanging behind the bar. A crude drawing of her own face stares back at her, a caption proclaiming: _Emma, daughter of Snow White. WANTED, dead or alive on Queen Regina’s authority_.

Great, just great.

“You alright there, girl?” Granny questions, and Emma shakes herself, forcing herself to smile pleasantly.

“Yes. I’m fine. I just – never mind. I’ll just be – how much do I owe you for the night?”

While Granny moves away to calculate the bill, her eyes still narrowed in suspicion, Emma grits her teeth to calm the growing sense of panic. She’s only met Granny so far, but Emma knows curses cast by the Mills women; memory charms are their standard. If Granny doesn’t know who she is, Emma doubts anyone else will remember her either.

But, Emma reasons, she’s been in this situation before: thrown into the Enchanted Forest where no one knows her and she managed to find her way out of it. Two times, in fact. This one should be absolutely no different.

Except both of those times, she wasn’t alone. Both of those times she, in one way or another, had Killian. So maybe she can find him here too.

Granny returns with the bill, and Emma balks at the cost. She only has a handful of gold coins, but the night she doesn’t remember costs her nearly half of them. Granny is still watching her closely, so Emma thanks her for the room and hurries out of the tavern.

Thankfully, whatever this curse has done, it at least had the grace to drop her in a seaside city so her search for Killian isn’t going to be as challenging, or so she hopes.

The inn is directly across from a bustling harbour, full of large sailing ships like the _Jolly Roger_ and a scattering of fishing vessels. There’s no obvious sign of the _Jolly Roger_ in the harbour, and the old man serving as harbourmaster gives her a strange look as she asks, probably questioning her sanity for wanting to know where a pirate such as Captain Hook is. He’s unhelpful at first, and it’s only when Emma presses two of her remaining gold coins into his palm that he confirms that there was a pirate by that name who sometimes visited the town, but that he hadn’t been there for over a year and it was unlikely he’d back anytime soon.

Disheartened, Emma settles onto a bench near the docks to gather her thoughts. If Killian isn’t around, well that’s not the end of the world. She could perhaps seek information out about Mary Margaret, David, and Henry. The poster mentioned Snow White and Prince Charming, so surely they would be here too somewhere. And this is Cora’s curse; Emma bets that this is somehow designed to give Regina some sort of victorious moment, and no victory to Regina would be complete without Henry at her side.

“Hey!”

Emma looks up, startled from her thoughts. A fisherman is staring at her from across the dock, his eyes narrowed as if trying to place her face from where he’s seen it before, and Emma curses just as the realization hits the man.

“It’s her – it’s the princess!”

She jumps to her feet and starts running, back into the depths of the town as the fisherman stirs up more people’s notice. She has no idea where she’s going, but she just knows she needs to avoid the heavy footfalls that are beginning to track her.

“This way!”

“I swear it, it’s Snow’s daughter!”

“Get the guards! The Queen wants her!”

Emma ducks in and out of alleyways as she comes across them, taking a page out of her old bail bonds targets from years ago now. But she’s usually the one chasing the runaway, and in an unfamiliar town as this, Emma turns onto a dead-end street, with no way out but the way she came.

“There she is!”

Adrenaline pulsing through her veins, Emma considers her options. She won’t be able to fight her way free from this one, not with the number of people now approaching her. But Emma, unlike her bail bonds targets of old, has an advantage. They couldn’t use magic to escape from a dead end street, but maybe she can.

Though she’s never attempted the _poofing _magic before and hearing Regina’s voice in her ear proclaiming it to be advanced magic, there’s no time to try it like being chased by money-hungry locals who may take the _wanted, dead or alive_, part a bit too seriously. 

Ignoring that the last time she tried to do something like this, she accidently set off a curse that erased memories and banished her to the Enchanted Forest, Emma takes a deep breath, pushing out the sounds of the approaching townsfolk. Teleporting should be the opposite of what she was trying to do with the candle, right? She should be able to send _herself _somewhere else, instead of bringing something to her.

And she knows exactly where she wants to go.

Emma squeezes her eyes shut, imagining every aspect of Killian she can imagine. His blue eyes, his tousled hair, his leather jacket, his ever-present flask of rum, the tattoo on his arm, the warmth of his smile, the feel of his touch, the taste of his kiss.

The approaching footfalls and shouts vanish, replaced instantly with the creaking of wooden beams, crashing waves, chattering seagulls. Emma’s eyes fly open and instead of the dead end alley, she is standing on the oak timbers of _the Jolly Roger_, sparkling blue sea all around, an even bluer sky overhead visible through the riggings and between the soaring sails.

She did it – she did it!

Her exuberance quickly fades as she takes in the scene around her. The _Jolly Roger _had been bustling with people hard at work, but now everyone is staring at her, shocked and bewildered. Several of them draw weapons, suspicion and fright clouding their eyes, stalking towards her with swords pointed directly at her.

“What the hell are you doing on my ship?”

Emma whirls around. Standing before her, dressed in his full pirate regalia with the heavy leather jacket and red vest, is Killian. His sword is drawn like most of his crew, pointed at her, but that’s not the most upsetting thing about this situation – he’s staring at her with no recognition in his eyes. 

Emma’s heart sinks. She should have expected this – like Granny, Killian doesn’t recognize her either. Though this time, while it had been disappointing Granny didn’t know her, to see Killian stare at her like he has never seen her before in his life … well, it hurts more than she ever thought it would.

“I – I, uh –”

“Who are you?” he demands, stepping forwards. His sword is now nearly touching her, close enough to make her take an automatic step back. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m – I’m Emma,” she says, deciding on the spur of the moment to go with the truth, watching him carefully for any sign of recognition. “I – I was looking for help.”

His eyes narrow, but he does lower his sword, tilting his head to look closer at her.

“Help?” he repeats, and then a slow, reassuring smile appears on his features. Emma, used to this side of him, relaxes automatically, but that was her first mistake – Killian Jones may wear a reassuring smile in an expression of sincerity to her, but to Captain Hook, when he doesn’t know her and only knows that she’s appeared out of thin air on his ship, it’s only a false assurance meant to set her at ease.

He moves so fast, Emma’s not even sure how he manages to do it. One moment, she’s standing in the middle of the deck, pirates all around, the next both her arms are held firmly behind her back with the curve of Killian’s hook, her entire body contorted as he twists her to press a sharp dagger her throat.

_Seriously? _

Emma is distinctly reminded of the time she did this to him – back when she first met him, when he was working for Cora and lying to them about his true identity. She’d been the one pressing the dagger against his throat, questioning his appearance in the camp in impossible circumstances, disbelieving his true intentions.

She supposes this must be the universe’s version of karma.

“Well, dear Emma,” Killian says softly, though his voice is the opposite of a caress. “Unfortunately, you’ve come to the wrong person for help.” He pushes her away, hard enough that she stumbles right into the grip of two crewmembers, and he commands, voice cold, “Take her to the brig.”

“No, wait!” Emma shouts, but Killian is already turning away, returning to the helm of the ship. “Please, I need your help!”

He doesn’t turn around again, and the crew laugh and guffaw at her as the two who have a grip on her arms pull her down into the depths of the ship. Though Emma struggles against them, their grips are bruising, and she can’t get free of them. They haul her into an area of the _Jolly Roger _that she hasn’t been in before, and half-throw her into the cell, locking the barred door firmly behind her. They disappear quickly back to up to the deck with final terrified looks sent her way, leaving her alone in the damp, dimly lit cell.

Emma lets out a deep sigh, dropping to the floor and leaning her head against the rough wooden walls of the cell. Killian has no idea who she is, clearly mistrusts her, and now she’s been thrown into the brig of his ship while out in the middle of the ocean – how the hell is she supposed to get out of this one?


	2. Part Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long delay! But in better news, this has expanded into 3 parts, so enjoy this part and the next one will be up as soon as I can manage it.

Alone in the brig, Emma only allows herself to wallow for a few minutes before rising to her feet, steeling herself. No matter that this is the _Jolly Roger_, she can’t very well stay here with a bunch of pirates who don’t know her and who she’s sure are absolutely terrified of her. Killian told her once that his crew were a superstitious lot; she has no doubt that appearing on a ship in the middle of the ocean has made many of them say a prayer to their gods for safety against whoever Emma is.

Emma grips the iron bars of the door to the cell, but they don’t budge even an inch when she rattles them. Frustrated, she attempts the _poofing _spell again, but when she closes her eyes, imagining herself back in the small room at Granny’s (as the only location she can really think of to go in this world), nothing happens. When she opens her eyes again, she’s still in the cell in the damp and cold depths of the ship.

She tries a couple more times, but to no avail. It appears that whatever amount of power it took to get her here in the first place is completely drained. She has no idea how far she travelled to get to this ship, but by the pure exhaustion beginning to hit her and making her feel nauseous and lightheaded, she guesses it was quite the distance. The adrenaline high she’s had since arriving back in the Enchanted Forest is starting to wear off too, leaving only that numbing exhaustion, both physically and emotionally.

Emma drops down to the floor, crossing her arms and hugging her legs close to her body. If only Killian remembered her. To see him and have her memories of their relationship, while he knows nothing about her … well, Emma wonders if this is how he felt when he showed up at her door in New York City. Hopeful, relieved, joyous – and then crushed with disappointment and heartbreak.

Perhaps she should’ve thought this whole thing a bit better. Maybe she should have sought out Regina’s help to break this curse instead of his. Not that Killian wouldn’t help her if he could, but this is Cora’s doing after all. From what Emma knows of Regina’s mother, she wanted nothing more than her daughter to be victorious, for Regina to be powerful and to rule over everyone who ‘wronged’ them. If Cora created this curse, then maybe there was some loophole that allowed Regina to retain her memories too, as Regina’s curse with Storybrooke had before.

Emma gasps suddenly and sits straight up, another jolt of adrenaline and fear rushing through her at the realization – Storybrooke, the last curse – _Henry_.

Oh, god, where is Henry in all this? Is he here somewhere in this cursed Enchanted Forest too? Or was he left behind in Storybrooke, alone and not knowing where his family is or what’s going on? If he’s here, where is he? Is he safe, is he out there somewhere on his own –

“Settling in?”

Emma jolts, and scrambles to her feet out of her vulnerable position on the floor, her embedded instincts of protecting herself re-appearing in an instant. She searches for the source of the voice, having recognized it already, and there, standing against the opposite wall and keeping a far distance from her, stands Hook. His face is shadowed in the darkness of the hold, his arms crossed.

“Uh, what?” Emma says blankly, not really having heard his question. Her mind is still caught up in thoughts of her son, in what has happened to him in the midst of this latest disaster.

Hook, oblivious to her thoughts, rolls his eyes, and Emma’s taken aback at the icy look he bestows upon her. She’s unused to seeing him look at her like that, not when only hours ago it was so, so different. His eyes are narrowed, his face is cold and distant, and there’s an entire lack of warmth to his stance. His usual, ever-present undercurrent of sardonic humour has evaporated in the face of the suspicious and unfriendly glare he gives her.

“I asked if you were settling in,” he repeats, voice calm and cool. “Though I should rather like to ask you what the hell you are doing here and who the hell you are.”

Emma ignores his cold tone, though it stings as if she’s been frostbitten. Instead, she grips the iron bars between them, staring at him intensely, trying to will him to remember her, to remember _them_.

“Emma. My name is Emma Swan.”

For a single heartbreaking moment, Emma swears she sees recognition flicker in his eyes. But as quickly as it came upon him, he’s scowling at her again, unimpressed and apprehensive.

“Swan,” he repeats, and though it’s the man she loves saying her name, as he has a thousand times, this time there’s a curled mockery to his voice that she makes her stomach turn. He surveys her up and down with cool, appraising eyes. “Unusual name for a witch.”

Emma frowns, taken aback. “I’m not a witch.”

He tilts his head at her, an eyebrow raised in question. “No? Appearing out of thin air on the deck of my ship is not the act of a witch?”

His voice is more jovial now, almost teasing, but Emma tenses. He’s doing the same thing he did above deck, a lighter tone to put her off guard. He’s obviously suspicious of her, and she can’t really blame him. As a general statement, Emma knows Killian distrusts magic. He has dark and tumultuous history with Rumplestiltskin, Regina, Cora and … well, Emma’s just never counted herself among that group.

Though her heart sinks in disappointment, Emma steels herself once again. Just because he doesn’t remember her, doesn’t mean he still can’t help her figure out how to break this curse. Killian Jones in any realm is useful, and Emma’s starting to get an idea of how he can do help her with the curse _and_ make sure Henry is okay.

She has no idea where her son is, but since this is Cora’s curse, Emma’s wondering if maybe her son is with Regina. After all, in Cora’s eyes, Regina’s victory wouldn’t be complete without Henry by her side, right? So if he’s with her, and if Emma can get there, she can make sure he is safe _and _find a way for them all to make it back to Storybrooke, with Regina’s help.

It’s a gamble, but what choice does Emma have?

“I’m not going to harm you or your crew,” she says, as calmly as she can muster. “But I need your help.”

He snorts. “As you’ve said, many times. What help does a witch require of a pirate?”

She ignores the use of the word ‘witch’ and continues, “My son is missing. He’s been taken by the Evil Queen and I need help getting him back. I can’t get to her palace by myself.”

That last part is true at least; Emma doesn’t think she can manage another burst of transportation magic at this point, and while she feels slightly guilty for lying to Hook, she knows that if he could remember her, he would be more than willing to help her find Henry. And indeed, at the mention of her son, his features soften, a glimmer of the Killian she recognizes shining through.

“Ah. That is – I am sorry to hear of your boy, but I cannot help you.”

“What?” Her heart sinks. “Why not?”

He regards her silently, eyes narrowing as he scans her from head to toe. “I take it you are familiar with the Evil Queen?” he asks slowly, and Emma nods. “Then you well know that entering her territory without her permission is a death sentence. We would do no good to your boy when we’re all dead anyways.” He shakes his head, an almost imperceptible grimace of regret on his face. “I do not wish any child the presence of the Evil Queen, but I cannot help you. If that is why you sought me out, unfortunately, you’ve wasted your time. We’ll return you to the next port, and perhaps another ship can help you there –”

He begins to turn away, stepping back into the shadows of the passage towards the upper deck, and Emma grips the iron bars, wishing she could reach out and grab him instead.

“No, Killian, wait –”

But that’s the wrong thing to say. Hook whirls around, face pale now and eyes wide in honest shock. Emma backs away from the iron bars out of instinct, no desire to feel the sharp edge of his hook at her throat, as he marches back to her.

“How do you know that name?” he growls, and it’s easy to see how he gained his reputation as the fearsome Captain Hook with those black eyes directed at her, the snarl on his lip, the dark tenor to his voice.

“I – you told me,” she says, which is true but a very stupid thing to say.

“You’re a liar,” he whispers, his voice low and dangerous. “The only people who know that name are either up on my deck or have been dead for centuries.”

Emma’s throat dries up. He’s right, and she doesn’t know what to say that he’ll believe, not that she’d have a good excuse for why she’d know it in this cursed realm anyways.

“I – uh –” Then she pauses. An idea is forming … it’s not the wisest choice, it may get her into more trouble, it _really _isn’t the best idea but – what choice does she have? She takes a deep breath and says, “The truth is … I know who you are because I know who you’re after – Rumplestiltskin.”

Hook gapes at her, and if he had looked taken aback at her saying his name before, its nothing like his shock now. Usually one never at a loss for words, now he is, totally flabbergasted and bewildered.

“You – the _crocodile_?” He shakes his head, as if trying to make sure he heard her right. “_You _– are you working with him? What do you want? Who _are _you?”

“I’m _not _working with him,” Emma says vehemently, interrupting his stream of questioning, his voice having risen with anger with each accusation. “I would never work with Gol – the Dark One. How I know him … well, that doesn’t matter – listen, _please_. I’m telling you the truth. I need your help.”

Hook isn’t listening to her. He’s started pacing the small corridor opposite her cell, his hand absently playing with the brace of the hook strapped tightly to his wrist, and he demands of her, “Where is he? Where is the Dark One?”

At that, Emma hesitates. Rumple was sent out of Storybrooke by Belle several weeks ago, and no one has heard a thing from him since. She has no idea if this new curse had enough strength to drag him back to the Enchanted Forest from an unmagical land, and even if it did, she has no idea where he’d have ended up here.

The truth seems like a viable option at this point, with a furious Captain Hook glaring at her, and she nearly confesses that she has no idea.

But she changes her mind at the last moment. She has very little power here, in the cell of the _Jolly Roger_ when its captain doesn’t know who she is, but she does have some leverage. Clearly this cursed version of Hook is still desperately after Rumplestiltskin, and if he thinks she can help him get to him … well, then maybe he’ll help her in return.

After all, once they get to Regina in the first place and break this curse, then it won’t matter that she doesn’t know where Rumple is.

It’s an awful feeling to know she’s going to lie and manipulate this Killian, but she’s not sure what else to do. She has no power other than this, as far as she can tell, and if he remembered her, he’d be absolutely willing to help her. She could try telling him about this curse in the first place, but she figures that telling him, this suspicious version of Captain Hook, that she accidently released a magical curse to send them all back here from another world won’t endear him to her cause.

She straightens her back, and swallows down the guilt and unease. “I know where he is, but I need your help first.”

Hook stops his pacing at that. For a moment, he looks slightly impressed before his lips curl into a cold smirk. It’s a cold smile that Emma’s seen him give to many other people before, but never directed to her.

She _hates _it.

He chuckles once, a sound that send shivers down Emma’s back, and he shakes his head, his expression grudgingly impressed.

“Ah, I see. Well played, Mistress Swan.”

Emma curls her hands into fists at her side, hating the swoop of guilt in her stomach, but there’s no backing down now. “You help me, I’ll help you. If you help me rescue my son, I’ll take you to Rumplestiltskin.”

Hook stares back at her, eyes narrowed in contemplation and his expression stony. Then he smiles again, that same cold smile. He steps forward and extends his hand through the bars, the rings adorning his fingers glinting in the faint light.

“Then we have an accord.”

Emma steps forward tentatively and grips his hand with her own. She knows her Killian, knows him even as Captain Hook in the depths of his revenge, but as she shakes this version of Killian’s hand, his eyes unreadable and hard, she can’t help but wonder who exactly she’s made this deal with.

<> 

After Hook leaves her alone again, Emma spends a few hours of total boredom and frustration in the brig. It’s cold and damp, with a terrible smell, and there’s no place to sit that doesn’t get drenched in seawater as the ship cuts through the waves outside. She can hear rats scurrying about around her, searching for scraps and crumbs, even nibbling at her shoes at one point. When she gets back to Storybrooke, she’s going to fix this brig up into some sort of _respectable_ holding cell, or at least one without rats or leaky floorboards.

The rickety boards outside the cell creak then, and Emma looks up sharply. Its Hook again, stepping out of the shadows, his expression unreadable. Emma tenses, watching him closely, but he merely approaches the door, unlocking it with a thin key, and he gestures her out of the cell.

“This is no place for a lady to sleep. Follow me.”

A bit taken aback, Emma scrambles to her feet and trails after Hook as he leads her through the depths of the ship, down the narrow corridor that leads to his own cabin. That he is taking her there surprises her again – she knows this version of Hook doesn’t trust her as far as he can throw her, and yet he still has brought her here to his own quarters?

The interior of the cabin looks the same as it always does: the single bed in the corner, the oak table in the middle of the room, the walls lined with bookshelves. From the porthole and windows facing outside, Emma sees that it is sunset already, the fading sun casting a low glow of amber light into the small cabin. A folded set of clothes sit on the table, and Hook picks them up to give to her.

“Dry clothes.”

“Thanks,” she replies, unfolding the clothing to look at it. It’s one of Hook’s own black shirts, and a cloth pair of trousers, and her heart twinges. “These – these are just what I need.”

He inclines his head at her, still distantly polite. “You must be hungry. I’ll fetch you something to eat.”

He disappears back out into the corridor, and when she’s alone, Emma strips out of her soaked jeans and thin shirt into the fresh clothes, tossing her leather jacket over the back of one of the chairs. The new clothes smell strongly like Killian, and the familiar scent makes her heart pang once again.

Though the clothes are clean and dry, her time in the brig has left her with a chill. Emma moves to the bed in the corner of the room, settling down on it as she usually does. She’s only been seated for a few minutes before Hook returns, a plate with a block of cheese, a loaf of bread and a pear on it. He skids to a stop in the doorway, an eyebrow raising at the sight of her.

“You’ve certainly made yourself at home.”

Emma tenses. She’d sat on his bed out of habit, and she gets to her feet, moving quickly away to the other side of the room. “Sorry, I just –”

“It’s fine, love,” he replies stiffly, placing the plate on the table. “As I said, the brig is no place for you to sleep.”

“Thanks –” Emma starts, but Hook is already backing away from her.

“Goodnight, Mistress Swan. Sleep well.”

And, with that, he’s gone, closing the door firmly behind him, his footsteps loud and echoing as he marches away.

Emma stares at the closed door, a swoosh of loneliness overcoming her. Here she is, in Hook’s cabin, on a ship where he doesn’t know her, where she’s nothing but a fugitive in a world where no one else knows her either. The exhaustion from the day, from the spell that drained her magic, truly starts to hit her now.

She returns to the bed, and trying her best to ignore the longing ache in her chest, Emma pulls the covers high, breathing in the familiar scent of the sheets and blankets, and falls asleep.

<> 

The next days are amongst the strangest in Hook’s life. The witch – _Emma_, he reminds himself sternly – has been aboard his ship for only a handful of days, but she might as well have been here her entire life.

He had expected her to sequester herself in his cabin, wary of the suspicious pirates, but instead she’s been on deck most of the time, walking around the ship as if she owns it. The crew keep their distance from her, satisfied with their captain’s explanation that she has information of value in the hunt for Rumplestiltskin but with no desire to spend more time than necessary with her. After all, to them, they view her as nothing more than the witch who had appeared on their ship out of nowhere.

Emma seems unbothered by this, and she spends most of her time with him instead, apparently unafraid of either the hook at the end of his wrist or his reputation that sent her here in the first place.

At first, he’d been surprised by that, but that soon became the least of the surprises. To add to the unexpected behaviour, Emma treats him with her own sense of informality and familiarity that compounds his sensibilities. He’d first noticed it the day she arrived, when she’d settled herself in his bed like she belonged there, and then again when she began marching around the ship as if she’d done it a thousand times before.

She’ll say things out of the blue that catch him so off guard it makes him pause and wonder how the hell she could know that or a teasing comment that only someone who knows him well would dare to say. Other times he catches her staring at him, a strange expression on her face, that she quickly tries to mask.

He thinks he may be losing his mind. In fact, he’s certain of it as, the more time he spends with her, the more familiar she seems to be to him. He knows he’s never met her before – he would remember that face, he’s sure – but there’s something strangely familiar about her, something magnetic that draws him in and makes him doubt his own mind.

Every time he is around her, his skin prickles with a sense of déjà vu. A knowing smirk, a teasing lilt to her voice, a warm hand on his arm – all things that feel intimately familiar, as if he’s experienced it all and more. A strange vision of seeing her blonde hair whip in the wind on this ship before, of seeing her seated casually at his dining table in his quarters, of hearing the sound of her laugh before. It’s maddeningly frustrating, and try as he might, he cannot place where he may have met her before.

One night, after a fruitless attempt to sleep amongst the snores of the crew in their hammocks and quarters, Hook stands on the deck in the middle of the night, his mind troubled. Tonight, not only is his mind twisted with thoughts of Emma and wondering who she really is, he also can’t seem to shake the fact that she knows the Dark One.

Could that be why she knows so much about him, why she seems familiar? Perhaps that is why he feels like he has known her before, maybe in one of his many schemes to find the Dark One, he has met her before.

Truly, he thinks, he must be losing his mind.

All he knows is that ever since Emma said his name, since she vowed to help him find the Dark One in exchange for her son, his mind has been as turbulent as the rough seas. The promise of finally finding the Dark One is like dangling a carrot in front of a hungry horse, or (more appropriate to his case) throwing a life raft to a drowning man. The final key to the quest that has haunted him for centuries, the end goal to all his suffering and misery.

Though he’s cautious about getting his hopes up; he’s been burned too many times before. How can he trust the word of this woman, who knows his true name, who claims to have learned it from the Dark One? Perhaps she’s a former apprentice of the Dark One, bitter and spurned by an inevitable betrayal, willing to betray her former master to Hook in a version of her own revenge? Or perhaps an equally powerful witch who wants one up on the Dark One for whatever offence he caused her? Or maybe he’s the one who sent her son away to the Evil Queen, and now this is Emma’s revenge for that instead?

If attempting to save her son from the Evil Queen doesn’t kill him, he’s starting to think the madness of trying to sort out just who exactly this Emma Swan is may do it instead.

And then, as if summoned by his thoughts, the hatch leading down to belowdecks opens and a figure emerges onto the dark deck. Emma, wrapped in the blanket from his bed, straightens, a silhouetted shadow illuminated by the lantern in her hand against the darkness of the deck, and Hook can’t help let a chuckle escape.

Of course, she’s here now too.

He clears his throat to get her attention, and she starts, whirling around dramatically. She relaxes when she realizes it’s him, and heads towards him.

“You’re up late,” she calls out, joining him on the upper deck. She sets the lantern down, casting an amber light around them, and she leans against the railing beside him, their arms brushing.

“Could say the same about you,” he replies, pulling away from her slightly if only to clear his own mind. Just another example of her informality to add to his list …

Emma doesn’t seem to notice, shrugging as she pulls the blanket around herself tighter. “Can’t sleep,” she says simply.

He nods absently, thinking back to his own pointless tossing and turning. “I know how you feel.”

She casts him a knowing look. “I bet you do.”

Another one of her strange comments. He frowns, and they lapse into silence then for a long while, the glimmering lantern light flickering with the rocking of the ship against the waves.

From the corner of his eye, he watches her. She’s stoic, her brow pinched in a frown, and is gazing down at the dark ocean with an unreadable expression.

He’s curious about her, about this witch who knows Rumplestiltskin and has a child kidnapped by the Evil Queen. She’s nothing like he thought she would be when he first talked with her in the cell, where he saw only the powerful witch who knew too much and demanded too much. Against his better instincts, he wants to know more about her and her past. He nearly begins to question her, but then changes his mind.

Now, looking at her in the glow of the lantern, he knows it’s not the time. Instead of the powerful witch who may be connected to some of the darkest figures of magic, right now, she looks like nothing more than a tired and stressed mother.

“Worried about your son?” he asks gently.

Emma sighs, and nods. “I hope he’s okay. He – he’s only a kid. He doesn’t deserve all this crap that keeps happening to him.”

“What did happen? I mean, how did he come to be taken?”

Emma tenses. “Uh, it’s complicated. I – uh … well, I suppose it’s my fault, really.”

He frowns, not expecting that answer. “How so?”

“I – well, I guess I cast a spell that got him into this situation. I didn’t mean to,” she adds, a touch of defensiveness rising to her voice at Hook’s raised eyebrow. “I – I can’t always control my magic. I was looking at something, and it turns out it was – it was some sort of spell, and it caused this whole mess.”

He frowns. She’s speaking out of the side of her mouth, vague enough that Hook has no idea what she’s really talking about. But he decides against questioning her – as long as she keeps her end of the bargain after they rescue her son, she can keep her secrets. Whatever she did, it’s apparent she’s torturing herself over it. 

“It sounds like it was an accident,” Hook murmurs, and Emma glances over to him. “I’m sure your son will understand.”

She regards him quietly, her eyes unreadable and dark in the dim light. “I hope so,” she says, after a long while of silence. “I hope everyone I … affected with this spell will forgive me.”

She says it meaningfully, as if there’s some message within her words, but again, Hook frowns, confused. She smiles sadly, and shakes her head briefly, pulling away from the railing. She pats his arm, and tugs the blanket tighter around herself once more.

“Goodnight, Hook.”

“Goodnight, Emma.”

He watches her retreat to the cabin belowdecks, the lantern light winking out as the hatch door shuts, leaving him in the dark of the night, now more confused than ever.

<> 

Several days later, after another few days of confusion and madness, the ship turns from the open waters and towards a small seaside town, emerging slowly from the morning fog coating the shoreline. With another four days of sailing to get to the Evil Queen’s fortress, they need more supplies to make it there.

Hook joins the crew in securing the sails as they get closer to the small town. They’re about to make port when Emma emerges from below deck, dressed hastily and haphazardly. She hurries towards him, her hands dropping to her hips as she approaches, and Hook is struck by the sight of her, emerging from his cabin in his black shirt, hair a mess.

“We’re stopping?”

He looks back to the rope he was tying, and focuses firmly on it instead of her. “Aye. We need more supplies before we continue on into the Queen’s territory.” He chances a glance back to her, and can’t help but grin teasingly. “Another mouth to feed drains our supplies quicker, you know.”

Emma rolls her eyes, though her mouth ticks up in half a smile. “How long will you be gone?”

“A few hours at most.” He finishes tying the rope, and straightens, wiping at the sweat on his brow. Emma looks tense, rubbing absently at her arms, and he adds, more gently, “I know you’re anxious for your son, but we do have to stop and replenish our supplies.”

She remains troubled, but nods in understanding. “Okay.”

She moves to leave, but Hook steps forward, blocking her path and grasping her forearm, brow furrowing. “You’re not a prisoner, love. You can come too.” He pauses, considering, and then adds, “I won’t leave without you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

She hesitates, glancing out to the approaching town, emerging from the fog to be a small cluster of thatched roof buildings and fishing boats. Something crosses over her expression, her brow furrowing briefly in worry, before she shakes her head.

“No, I know you won’t leave. But I’m going to stay here.”

Hook wants to press her for more information, wondering what has made her worried, but instead he nods, releasing her forearm and stepping back.

“As you wish.”

Emma smiles strangely at that, and quickly excuses herself from his presence. He loses track of her in the business of making port, and when they are docked and secured, Hook leads the majority of the crew down the rickety docks into the quaint town square, while several of the crew remain behind to watch the ship. He has stopped here at this village before – a small town on the outskirts of the kingdom – and while the people here may have no love for pirates, they do have love for what Hook brings with him: gold, and plenty of it.

The crew disperse into the nooks and crannies of the town, off to fetch new supplies of fresh water and food, while Hook wanders further into the village. His stomach growls as he passes by a bakery, but he forges on. He’s on a mission – after seeing Emma, tousled hair and dressed in his clothing, he’s decided she needs some of her own clothing.

The last thing he needs is something else adding to his growing confusion and disconcertment regarding her.

At the end of the lane is a small seamstress shop, small but stuffed with swarths of fabric and ribbons. A small bell tinkles over the entrance as the door swings open, and the woman behind the counter straightens when Hook enters, her eyes widening in surprise.

“Can – can I help you?”

“Yes,” he says, briskly, and requests her to bring some of her pre-made garments out for him to look at. There only a handful; most requiring accurate measurements from the individual in question to be sewn, and he frowns, considering them.

“For your lady, sir?” the woman asks innocently, and Hook glances sharply to her.

“Uh,” he starts, and then decides to just go with it, because explaining that no, actually, this clothing is for the witch who appeared on his ship and promised to take him to an immortal demon, is something he’d rather not do. “Yes.”

He chooses two of the dresses, one beige and one maroon, as well as a pair of soft cowhide pants and a white blouse. They look to be Emma’s size, or at least something she can made do with so he pays the woman and leaves with the clothing bundled under his arm.

As he’s strolling back down the lane, whistling to himself absently, a large pin-board near a cluster of taverns draws his attention, cluttered with flyers and posters. Habit draws him closer; sometimes there are bounties posted here, for pirates like himself, and he always likes to check in on these, to get a sense of what law enforcement is onto him.

This time, however, it’s not a bounty that catches his eye. In the centre of the board is a large WANTED poster, and he stops dead in his tracks, gaping. The blood drains from his face, as he stares back at the WANTED poster, at the very face of the same woman aboard his ship right now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


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